Static
by promessa
Summary: ME2, Samara's loyalty mission. Shepard doesn't see the conclusion of the fight and the lines between identity, familiarity, and desire become blurred. One-shot.


**Static**

* * *

_I lost her._

"Shepard."

_Lost her._

"Shepard!"

He snaps awake, the thought still fresh in his mind. The fight's not over, he remembers vaguely, and that is enough. Adrenaline surges and his N-school training takes over, the memories fueling his muscles, honing his instincts as he pushes himself up just enough so that one hand lashes towards the throat of the dark form near him. It is only when his consciousness returns a few moments too late that he sees the face of a familiar asari blankly staring back at him, unresponsive to his action. Even with his fingers tightening around her neck she is still placid, gaze boring into his.

She has never shown fear or emotion around him before. Her eyes are like he remembers, even as his nails dig into the smooth skin of her throat: calm, confident, fearless.

Like a predator.

Like Morinth.

**_"Like any predator, she is cautious."_**

"Oh god. Samara." His fingers fall slack and he feels his other arm quake and give out, his body again meeting the floor with a thump. His body screams protest, alight with pain now, the collective impact of being tossed about by Samara and Morinth's biotics earlier and being forced awake finally reaching him. He lays his forearm over his eyes, trying to block out any unnecessary stimuli.

"The deed is done." Her voice is unperturbed by the entire sequence of events and he senses her rise and walk away from him. He's been around her long enough to imagine her movements: he can picture her striding away to survey the room, assessing the situation, looking for something he may have missed.

"I'm sorry, Samara," he manages, though knowing she will not give any significant response. This was no surprise to him: he knows it has been long, centuries since the justicar had companionship and possibly equally long since she has trusted anyone. He's honored that she has sworn herself to him.

Yet it is that same detached mystique that also draws him in. Abroad the Normandy he visits her at odd hours between the insanity of duty, more than he probably should. She is always there, deep in meditation, the only constant in his hectic mission. Their conversations are generally courteous and unspecific, but sometimes she would offer him something real: a small bit of her past, like a rare jewel, and he would treasure it just the same. He knows that his interest in her is no longer strictly professional but he can't stop himself.

It was why he had agreed to carry this mission out. All for her.

To kill her own daughter.

"It is all right," she replies vaguely. As expected.

He takes a breath, feeling his thumping heart slow. Her voice alone soothes him, brings peace to his racing mind. With a grunt he sits up, shaking the stars out of his vision.

"You may take the time you need, Shepard. I suspect the earlier commotion was not enough to draw the attention of anyone that dwells in a place such as this."

Her disdain for Omega practically drips from her voice, a bit more apparent than he remembers. He brushes the thought from his mind and takes in his surroundings. The apartment is a mess, furniture strewn every which way. A corpse lies at the far side of the room, gore splayed across in a cacophonous painting about the body. Samara is standing over this gruesome piece of art, a brooding shadow. His mind is still frazzled and unfortunately he doesn't make the connection.

"Who won?" he asks, the question out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

It is something he will regret forever, not holding his tongue. If only he had simply accepted everything as it was, that in the time he had been unconscious Samara had triumphed (as she should, of course she should) and had been keeping careful watch over him ever since. If only he had done something as simple as not utter a word. The mission, the nightmare would have been over.

But he asks.

And though he does not see her expression, at that moment he can sense, practically hear time pass longer than it should.

"...I did, Shepard. It was... difficult." Her voice is strained.

That pause.

He had once asked her about the justicar's code and romance in passing, perhaps unscrupulously. There had been a brief silence then too- one of the longest she had ever graced him with during a conversation in fact- as she grappled over the question's implication. So he knew that she could have those moments as well, moments when the tranquil flow of her words would ripple.

But for some reason…

"Oh Samara."

That pause.

He stands shakily and makes his way for her.

That pause.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that—"

_that pause what was that __**pause**_

At her side now, he is careful to keep just enough distance so her personal space is maintained. She gives him a sidelong glance, those icy eyes giving nothing away.

"…I understand." Her gaze falls back upon the body. "Regardless, I would appreciate it if we did not have to linger here for much longer."

"Right," he says evenly, his vision following hers. Indeed, it is Morinth's body that lies at their feet; the tight, black, curve-hugging outfit is a bloodied jumble, the remains of her head an indecipherable canvas of flesh.

He's used to seeing bodies. This is no different, and no worse, than what he has seen before. But it is eerie, he now realizes, how similar Morinth's figure is to that of Samara's in spite of their age difference. Shapely, lithe, the sort of thing that drew wanting stares from all.

And he had been attracted to Morinth. Somewhat. That he could not deny. Though Samara had convinced him that he would only need to act the part, he had found himself growing into the role, voicing some of his own darker philosophies, things that had crossed his mind but his conscience had always pushed aside. And for the briefest of moments, when the two were on the couch of her apartment and Morinth's warmth and words had flooded him, when her chilling ocean-blue eyes had linked with his—

**_"Look into my eyes and tell me you want me."_**

"Shepard?"

**_"Tell me that you'd kill for me—"_**

Those chilling ocean-blue eyes bore into his, questioning.

"Is there anything else that needs to be done, Shepard?"

Concentration is a frightening thing. There are moments in battle when awareness can spike and the details of the entire battlefield would leap out in front of his eyes. Those moments were reserved for times of extreme danger and stress, he had always believed.

But suddenly he is far too aware of his own fragility. He's on lawless Omega, in a luxurious but nonetheless low-profile apartment. Next to him is not only an asari biotic, but a justicar (_"or a psychotic murderer. Or is there a difference between the two?" his mind taunts_) that has fought across the galaxy for centuries.

And he is _unarmed._

A stray piece of glass from the nearby cracked window shatters onto the floor, a dying crackle. It takes every single fiber of his being to not scream.

"How long was I out?" He is careful to avoid looking into those eyes again, the ones he thought he could drown himself in. Perhaps he already has.

He can sense her studying him, watching his reactions. Out of concern for him? Or to see when she might have to—

"Not long," she replies. "I apologize, but I wasn't able to—"

"Just give me your best guess."

"The fight was not an easy one. She was strong and desperate. I lost all track of time. I can only say that you awoke shortly thereafter."

"So you don't know how long."

"I'm sorry, Shepard."

Without warning, he abruptly stoops to a squatting position and reaches for the corpse. But her fingers close around his wrist just as quickly, before he gets an opportunity to inspect the body further.

"What are you doing?" If there is horror to be detected in her voice, he can't hear it. That calm, that thing that used to seep deep into his broken nerves is now so infuriating that—

He still refuses to meet her gaze, to see if there is any genuine shock there.

"Just… thought I saw something," he mumbles. Even he isn't sure what he had been expecting to find. An unexplainable bloodstain on the clothing, perhaps? What did he know about either Samara or Morinth that would let him clearly differentiate the two?

Morinth had to have found a way off Thessia, didn't she? Wouldn't it have been logical for her to be able to emulate her mother, just enough?

Her hand is still around his wrist, but now the grip has slackened. It is rare that they shared any physical contact outside of battle. Her touch is warm, just like he remembers; but so was Morinth's, and he isn't sure what frightens him all the more— that he might never forget her, or that he would never be able to tell the difference.

"I'm sorry, Samara. Let's go." He rises and advances away from the body, weary with exhaustion. Her graceful fingers fall away and she drops easily in step behind him, as she always has. He wants to forget this place, forget her, forget these doubts.

Most of Morinth's possessions are scattered about the floor. Only one of the tables has not been overturned in the fight and he is quick to recognize it. He freezes.

The Hallex that had been sitting there was gone.

**_"I love any game where your opponent can believe he is about to win… just before you kill him."_**

"Is something bothering you, Shepard?"

There is no emotion in her voice. The words from her sound dead. Dead.

_I lost her._

"...No." He starts walking again, this time just a bit faster. "It's fine."

-End-


End file.
